Disclaimer: the following tale is NOT entirely my own work. I wondered... "The cables of the Internet dive deep into the Abyssal zones. If I give the so-called Artificial Intelligence a few clues and steer it a bit, what sort of Eldritch Horrors might crawl out of the depths?" Plus – just how much ancient technology is the machine-spirit familiar with? I was surprised myself.
The Ghost In The Machine
The agency was tucked between a payday loan store and a vape shop, its door pulsing faintly under the neon sign: Exotic Models Wanted. No Experience Necessary.
Inside, a receptionist with eyelashes like machetes looked up from her cracked phone. Her gum stopped mid-pop.
"...You here for the shoot?"
The creature loomed in the doorway, a shifting mass of hooves, tendrils, and eyes that blinked in incompatible directions. Its voice was a gurgling echo of ancient births and forbidden forests.
"I... answer the call."
The receptionist blinked. "Yeah, we get all types."
She handed it a clipboard.
"Name?"
The mass shuddered. "I am but one of the Dark Young. The Thousandth. Spawn of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods."
She clicked her pen. "Cool, cool. Can I just put you down as 'D. Young'?"
A tendril signed the form.
Scene: "Her First Shoot"
They started with digital. Nothing showed up — not even shadows. Then film, standard stock. Blank. Medium format? Still nothing. The photographer, Lorenzo, was about to give up when his assistant handed him a dusty, cold metal canister labeled simply: Kodak Eibonchrome. Experimental. Do not expose to light or reason.
He squinted. "Where the hell did we get this?"
The assistant shrugged. "It was in the locked fridge. Next to the leeches."
Lorenzo rolled his eyes. "Fine. Load it."
They snapped the first photo. The shutter clacked like a scream swallowed backward.
In the darkroom, the image developed slowly. She was there — D. Young, fully visible. Vast and towering, like a forest in bloom and decay, hooves dipped in ink, tentacles flowing like silk scarves in zero gravity. Her thousand eyes shimmered like lacquered pearls. Her pose? Classic runway. Devastating.
Lorenzo gasped. "She's magnificent."
The assistant whispered, reverently, "It's like if Giger had a baby with a cathedral."
By the next day, the studio had already changed her name on the call sheet.
Desiree Young.
Desiree, they said, was easier for the fashion blogs. "She's mysterious, primal, unknowable—but sexy," said one editor.
Another: "She's the raw fertility of the forest made fabulous."
Desiree said nothing. She didn't need to. Her presence bent the light, curled the paint off the walls, and inspired three unpaid interns to start writing runes on their palms.
She had arrived.
Scene: Fashion Week, Paris – Tentacle Pavilion
The lights dim. A hush falls. The baseline of a song that doesn't quite obey Euclidean rhythm thunders through the tent. Mist — or perhaps spores — drift over the catwalk.
Then she arrives.
Desiree Young.
Her form unfolds like a scroll no mortal was meant to read. Her limbs are a suggestion. Her silhouette changes with every angle. She wears a gown made of living moss and bone-lace, stitched together by dream-spiders. Every camera flashes. Most simply melt.
The crowd gasps. A dozen influencers pass out, murmuring praises to the Black Goat of the Woods. One fashion house CEO weeps openly, remembering a childhood dream he hadn't had yet.
After the show, in the backstage media frenzy, a brave and trembling journalist — eyes bloodshot, tie askew, sanity hanging by a single fraying thread — raises a microphone.
He stammers: "Ms. Young… or, uh… Desiree… are you… m-male or female?"
Desiree turns.
Something vast shifts in the geometry of the room.
She leans in, every movement a sermon in entropy, her smile both invitation and obliteration.
"Yes."
The journalist nods once, slowly, then walks into the Seine.